


Parce Que Je T'aime

by Waffle-o (XylB)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Angst, FAHC, GTA Universe, Happy Ending, M/M, tapping into my multilingual headcanons here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XylB/pseuds/Waffle-o
Summary: Ray and Ryan hit a rough patch in their relationship where there shouldn't be a rough patch.





	1. Chapter 1

”They aren't cooperating, boss. We've tried two different interrogators."

"Let me try."

"Okay, boss, but I'm warning ya, they're difficult."

Miles smiles and steps past the officer, squaring his shoulders as he walks up to the door of the interrogation room. He peers through the window - the Vagabond stares coolly back. Miles smirks. He didn't get this job through luck alone.

"Put two guards outside the door. I don't want them to try anything funny."

"Okay, Agent Luna."

Miles inclines his head in thanks and grabs the files sitting on the table outside the room. He does a cursory flick through each and tucks them under his arm, nodding to himself before he unlocks the door.

It swings open silently when he pushes, tapping lightly against the wall and swinging back shut behind him. He locks it again and strides towards the table in the middle of the room, heels of his sharp shoes clicking against the floor.

"So, Vagabond," Miles says as he slides into the chair, placing the folders carefully in front of him on the table. "Or James, can I call you James?"

The Vagabond's eyes narrow and he growls low in his throat. Miles has never seen him without face paint nor a mask. The man's really quite striking, underneath.

"I'll take that as a no, then," Miles says calmly, flipping open the first file. "Mr. Haywood, I assume you're aware that you've committed multiple crimes, including but not limited to: arson, first degree murder, third degree murder, theft, larceny, and rape?"

"Ryan? Rape? You gotta be kidding." BrownMan says, seated next to the Vagabond and looking, for all intents and purposes, completely asleep. Except for the slit of his eyes, ugly fluorescents reflecting harshly in them. He raises his head from his slumped posture and looks at the Vagabond, who glares at him. BrownMan rolls his eyes and turns back to Miles.

"Ryan's the most chivalrous person I know." BrownMan smirks, like it's a joke between them.

The Vagabond growls loudly and BrownMan sighs, sinks back into his chair.

"Say whatever the fuck you want, but we'd never rape anyone. That's fucking disgusting."

Miles considers that and continues.

"Won't even fuck me rough without asking," BrownMan mutters under his breath, looking up at the ceiling.

"So, Mr. Haywood, you're part of one of the most dangerous gangs in Los Santos. What makes you think we don't know it was you who burnt down the bank? An impressive feat, I might add."

"Because that's not our deal? What the fuck?" BrownMan again. Miles sighs and opens the other file.

“Mr. Narvaez, I don't think you're exactly in a position to speak. Your record's almost longer than Mr. Haywood's over here.”

“My dick's almost longer than Mr. Haywood's over here,” Narvaez mumbles under his breath before levelling a bored stare at Miles. “And you clearly haven't done your research if you think that arson job was us.”

Haywood spits out a sudden stream of words at Narvaez, and it's...French? Miles glances down at his file and back up at the criminals. It says nothing about bilingualism. Narvaez rolls his eyes and responds in startlingly clear Portuguese. Haywood opens his mouth to reply, but Miles slams his hands on the table to stop them.

“Stop!”

Surprisingly, they go quiet, both turning to him with cold glares. The handcuffs jingle as Haywood shifts in the chair. He mutters something to Narvaez and Narvaez jerks his hands – and the handcuffs – in an exasperated gesture.

“You fucktard, we _all_ know it was Michael!” He exclaims, and Haywood snarls something harsh at him in Spanish. Narvaez flips him off.

“Mr. Haywood, the sooner you cooperate, the sooner we can all be out of here. Hopefully with you two in jail cells, but at this point I'm not too picky about whether you get death penalty or not,” Miles punctuates the threat with a sharp glare. “So shut up and answer my questions.”

“You can't prove it was us,” Narvaez points out, slumping back in his chair.

“I have CCTV that says otherwise.” Miles doesn't, but he wants to see them cower.

“No you fucking don't, because we didn't fucking do it,” Narvaez says, more defiant than ever. “It was fucking Michael. And maybe Gavin, but I don't know what the fuck he was doing that day.”

Ah, Michael Jones and Gavin Free. Team Nice Dynamite and two-sixths of the FAHC. Miles doesn't have their files with him right now, but he's read them enough to practically know the two by heart.

Michael Jones, codename Mogar. Brutal and fearless and has a reckless penchant for explosives. Also really loves fucking with the police.

Dr. Gavin Free, codename Gavino. Smart and flashy and actually has a medical doctorate. Miles isn't sure how legal that PhD is, but he's never seen any of the FAHC in hospital, even after the LSPD – FAHC shootout two summers ago.

“Oh? Then how come we picked you two up near the scene of the crime with Jones and Free nowhere in sight?”

“Because they blew up a bank and we just happened to be next to it! Or, I don't know, I was trying to fucking _enjoy_ myself and have a night off? For once?!” Narvaez huffs out a harsh breath and Haywood says something to him, low voice and smooth French.

“Oh, you don't get to fucking talk!” Narvaez shouts, glaring at Haywood. “You don't get to fucking talk after that shit you pulled!”

Haywood fumes quietly as Narvaez turns back to Miles. “And you, unless the police is suddenly fudging evidence, you haven't got shit.”

“Prove it,” Miles says with a shark grin, all teeth. He leans back in his chair, hands folded carefully on his lap.

“Innocent until proven guilty, I thought,” Narvaez snarks, leaning back to mirror him.

“You're already proven guilty,” Miles gestures at the files. “This'll just be the cherry on top. The one that goes directly to trial – _without_ Geoff Ramsey's slippery fingers getting in the way. Hard for him to intervene if you're locked up by my department. Now, can you prove you weren't there or not?”

“Check the fucking CCTV from – Ryan, what was the place?”

Haywood responds in bored Portuguese and Narvaez nods.

“Moonlight, yeah, that was it. Restaurant one block over.”

Miles arches an eyebrow scoffs. “You expect me to believe you were at a restaurant? At _Moonlight_ , no less?”

“Check the tapes,” Narvaez shrugs.

“Sure, like you didn't already fudge that. I'll admit, you guys can make good alibis, but you can't fake witnesses.”

“Ask the fucking waiter. Marco or Mark or some shit. He'll remember us.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah-huh,” Narvaez mocks.

“Okay, I'll humour you,” Miles says, leaning forward on his elbows. “Let's say you were at Moonlight when the crime was committed. What were you doing there?”

“Eating, duh. It's a restaurant.” Narvaez rolls his eyes.

“Sure. Why, though, were two infamous criminals having dinner at an upmarket restaurant? Seems an odd choice for the pair of you.”

“Fucking, I don't know, ask Ryan.”

“Okay, then. Mr. Haywood, why were two infamous criminals having dinner at an upmarket restaurant? Since your friend here doesn't seem to know.” Miles slants a glare at Narvaez and focuses back on Haywood, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Haywood doesn't respond, just stares coolly back.

“Oh, for – I don't know _why_ he fucking chose that place – he just dragged me in,” Narvaez says. “He had a reservation and everything. I figured I'd play along.”

Haywood mumbles something under his breath. Narvaez sighs. “Ryan, I swear to god stop being so _difficult_. Tell the nice FIB agent why we were there, and maybe we can fucking _go._ ”

Haywood shifts in his chair and says something in French again. Narvaez responds in an onslaught of Portuguese and soon enough they're shouting over each other in at least four different languages and Miles is about to slap the table again or maybe the criminals themselves, but Haywood shouts something in clear Russian and Narvaez stops mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. Haywood's cheeks tinge pink and he looks pointedly away from Narvaez, somewhere to his right.

Miles sucks in a breath to speak again, but Narvaez gets there before him. He asks something in quiet Portuguese and Haywood shrugs and replies in equally quiet French.

“Je t'aime.”

Now, Miles doesn't know a lot of French, in fact, barely any, but he knows that phrase. And judging by the look in Narvaez's eyes, Miles has stepped into something way more than just an interrogation.

“I was going to ask you afterwards,” Haywood says quietly, the first English he's spoken since being taken in.

Narvaez mouths a silent “oh” and looks down at his lap.

Hating to break the tension – angry criminals are difficult criminals – Miles swallows and lays his hands carefully on the table.

“So? Why were you there?”

“He – uh - “ Narvaez's hand moves as if to come up to his face, but the handcuffs stop him. “It was a date,” he settles on, but Miles knows that's not the whole truth.

He leaves it, though, and stands smoothly, carefully gathering up the files and tucking them under his arm. He'll check out their alibi, see if it holds. Maybe root through their possessions, too, check _again_ (even though the police already did) to see if there's any sign of anything illegal among those.

“I'll see you gents later.” Miles tips his head in acknowledgement before he turns to go, heels clicking sharply in the tense silence.

\--

With some strings pulled and some favours promised, Miles manages to wrangle up the Moonlight CCTV and a few witnesses, including the waiter, Marco.

And damn it all to hell, the alibi checks out. The security footage shows Haywood and Narvaez showing up at the door, being escorted to a table. They're dressed in the clothes they are now – Haywood in smart jeans and a clean black T-shirt with a jacket slung over his arm, Narvaez in dark jeans and a similar T-shirt, a black hoodie on top of it. He removes it when they sit down. Moonlight's upmarket, but not so fancy they that stick out with their jeans and their T-shirts. They actually fit in quite nicely.

There's conversation and they order and Marco fills their water, brings out their plates – roast chicken for Haywood and a burger for Narvaez – and it all seems perfectly, absolutely normal. Miles hates them for it.

The witness corroborate this story – one woman talks about how handsome Haywood is, a man mentions how close they seemed, the maître'd remembers Haywood's easy smile, Marco recounts a joke Narvaez told him. It all checks out.

Around the time they're ordering dessert, the bank's burning down. Miles glares at the timestamp. Twenty minutes later – after ice cream and nearly knocking water all over the floor – they leave, bumping shoulders as they walk out the door.

Miles knows that ten minutes after _that_ they're picked up by the police and forced into the back of a cop car. Miles almost feels sorry for them. Almost.

He picks through the possessions – already marked and documented by the police, no report for anything, and Miles trusts them, he _does_ , but he's not willing to let these two go that easily. So he opens bags and paws through the contents.

It's pretty much standard. Two wallets, two phones – must be burner phones, because there's nothing on them but the standard apps and a list of phone numbers – a napkin, a random receipt, and – oh, and this.

Miles pops open the ring box and lifts it to look more closely at the ring. It's shiny and silver and Miles would bet anything that it fits on Narvaez's finger perfectly. No fingerprints or smudges on it – unused. Probably unopened.

Well, that may explain more of the argument Miles witnessed.

He drops the box back in and closes the bag, putting it back on the evidence shelf. Nothing. He's got jack nothing. He sighs and drags a hand down his face. He's going to have to let them go.

Miles steels himself in the dull reflection of the window to the interrogation room and walks in.

“Well, Mr. Haywood, Mr. Narvaez, it looks like I was wrong,” he says with a forced smile, clapping his hands together once. “You're free to go.” He waves in Shawcross and Kerry gets to work unlocking the handcuffs, smiling nervously at the criminals beside him. Miles nods reassuringly as Kerry walks back.

“Your items are at the front desk. Feel free to pick them up on your way out.” Miles leaves the room but lurks outside in case they get any smart ideas. But when he glances in through the window, all he sees is Haywood reaching over to rub at Narvaez's reddened wrist. Narvaez jerks his hand away and stands up. Miles sees Haywood's face fall for a split second before he covers it.

Miles feels like he's invading something intensely personal, and he steps away from the door, adjusting his suit as he hears footsteps approach the door.

Narvaez and Haywood walk right past him, paying him no notice as they wind their way out of the police station. Miles watches from afar as they collect their stuff, Haywood sneakily checking on the ring when Narvaez's facing the other way. He slides it into his pocket as Narvaez turns around again, handing him his wallet.

They leave with no turning back, and Miles is left wondering when he'll next see them.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ray, why are you so angry at me?!”

“I'm fucking angry because you're being fucking stupid!”

“How the hell am I _stupid_?”

“What kind of idiot proposes to a guy like me, Ryan?! A fucking _moron_ , that's who!”

“Then I guess I'm a moron, Ray! Fucking sue me for actually _loving_ you!”

Gavin buries his face further into Michael's neck, but he can't drown out the fight the next room over. Michael sighs and his arm tightens around Gavin, holding him closer.

“Yeah, you are a fucking moron!”

“Well, I'm really fucking sorry for daring to try and propose to you, then! My fucking mistake!”

“Yeah, sure was!”

There's a thud against the wall and Gavin jumps, a startled whimper bursting from his throat. Michael presses a soft kiss to his hair and they both wince as a door slams open.

“Ray!”

There's no response, and a minute later the front door slams shut. Ryan doesn't seem to go after Ray, and a moment later something breaks in the next room.

“Should we go after him?” Michael murmurs into his hair. Gavin sighs and offers an “I guess” and they reluctantly separate, pulling on shoes and jackets.

“Do you want me to stay with Ryan or come with you?” Michael asks, fixing the collar of Gavin's jacket.

“You could try,” Gavin suggests, shrugging. He slides a gun into his waistband and Michael gives him a quick kiss before ducking out of the room.

He returns a moment later, a bit pale. Gavin cocks an eyebrow.

“He, uh – angry. Doesn't want to talk.”

Gavin nods and grabs Michael's hand, tugging him out of the room and towards the front door.

\--

They don't find Ray, and return to the base exhausted and cold at five in the morning, immediately collapsing into bed and promptly sleeping until noon.

Ray shows up to lunch/Michael's-and-Gavin's-breakfast with a bruise colouring his cheekbone. He snarls at Ryan when Ryan tries to touch it, and Ryan's hand falls away lamely.

Michael and Gavin exchange worried glances and eat in silence.

Michael corners Ray after lunch/breakfast, backing him up against a kitchen unit.

“Hey Ray.”

“Hey Michael. You're close.” Ray says, looking Michael up and down. “Did you want something?”

“Yeah.” Michael gestures at Ray's bruise and clears his throat in an attempt to ask the hardest question of his life. “Did – Did Ryan do that to you?”

Ray's eyes go wide and horrified and he pushes Michael away. “God, no! What the fuck, Michael?”

“I – there was a lot of noise last night. I just making sure you weren't hurt!”

“No, I shoved Ryan into a wall! Jesus, Michael.” Ray shakes his head and takes Michael's silence as his cue to leave. Before he can disappear, though, Michael catches his wrist.

“Ray, you know...you know I'm here if you need someone, right?”

Ray sighs. “Yeah, I know.” And he disappears.

\--

So Gavin may not have thought this plan through. He's hiding behind the sofa, wedged between the wall and the sofa, trying to hide from one Geoff Ramsey. Nothing serious, but Gavin may or may not have just spilt coffee all over Geoff's bed and, well, Geoff's nothing if not a vengeful man. But he hasn't found him yet, hidden here in the basement, the game room.

He realises his mistake as soon as he hears footsteps down the stairs, too light to be Geoff's. The person – Michael? Ray? - collapses on the sofa, breathing out a long sigh as they turn on the TV, light flooding the wall above Gavin.

Another set of footsteps comes down, these ones heavier. Could very well be Geoff.

It's not.

“Ray,” Ryan says. He sits down beside Ray. Gavin quiets his breathing to take in the tense silence that follows.

“What do you want, Ryan?” Ray asks, sounding incredibly tired. Gavin can imagine the small frown pulling at Ryan's mouth, the crease between his eyebrows.

“I want to know why you're sleeping in your old bed.”

“Ryan - “

“I want to know why you think I'm stupid.”

“Look - “

“I want to know if we're okay.”

“...I don't know.” Ray's voice is so beaten down, so _defeated_ , that Gavin feels a pang of sympathy for him.

“Was it the proposal? Was it too much?”

Ray must shake his head, because Ryan' next question is “Then what?”

“I don't know why you want to marry me,” Ray replies, quiet and barely heard by Gavin behind the sofa. “I don't know why _me_.”

“Oh, Ray,” Ryan says, sounding terribly sad and terribly worried. “Ray, I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Ray whispers, more breath than voice. “I just – I don't think you should waste your life on me.”

There's shuffling and then Ryan's voice, low and comforting. “It could never be a waste, Ray.”

“Fucking sap,” Ray replies.

“Your fucking sap.”

There's a silence and the sound of a gentle kiss. Gavin's legs are starting to cramp.

“You shouldn't marry me.”

“Too bad, Ray. I choose you.”

Ray chuckles wetly and his voice is muffled when he speaks next.

“Nerd.”

Ryan hums out a laugh and a pleasant beat passes.

“You really want to marry me?”

“What, did you think I bought the ring on an impulse buy?”

“I guess not. Still. You can do better.”

“Nah.”

“Your funeral.”

Gavin's torn between scaring them by popping out of the sofa and just lying here to accept his fate. It would be funny, but – but he knows he wasn't supposed to hear any of this. So, because he's a good crew member and a _damn_ good friend, he stays behind the sofa, his arm falling asleep and his hip pressed uncomfortably up to the hard brick.

“So, Ray Narvaez Jr., will you marry me?” Ryan asks, a clear smile in his voice.

“Hm,” Ray pretends to debate it and Gavin has to stifle a giggle, “yeah, sure.”

“Yeah, sure?” Ryan parrots, disbelieving. “That's the words you chose?”

“All right, yes. Yes, I'll marry you, Ryan, Jesus.”

“Only need to marry one of us,” Ryan mutters, and there's a moment before they're kissing, a soft wet sound that Gavin hopes doesn't devolve into a make-out session.

“Thank you,” Ryan whispers afterwards, and _that_ Gavin was _definitely_ not supposed to hear.

He finds himself smiling anyway.


End file.
